


from point to palm

by dongtian (seclusion)



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Churches & Cathedrals, Enemy Lovers, M/M, Manga Spoilers, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29141445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seclusion/pseuds/dongtian
Summary: Darling darling, made of grief.
Relationships: Hisoka/Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	from point to palm

  
  
  


Darling darling, made of grief. Made of snow and wind and time.

In the ruination of Chrollo Lucilfer, Hisoka hides in the cracks. He is the eroding water and the boulder that smashes, splitting himself open with knives to pierce Chrollo. He is the tallest circle of red in a dying city, light, beacon, destruction. He is the sad-eyed morning made vicious, fog dispersed in favour of quiet blood. 

Partly because he is weak, partly because he is strong, Chrollo does not kill Hisoka. His fingers curl into his wrist, deliberate. One strike, one burn to slice the traitor; so simple it’d be to cleave through the chest, crush the heart, cut the string of life. Threads spinning, spooling, unfurling; Chrollo had failed to snip the dull one. He doesn’t even stay to see his ravaged body.

Chrollo, the reaper. Hisoka, the devil. The cursed paths they walk are interconnected, and at every intersection an inferno rages. 

Sometime along this shattered road, Chrollo had started lighting the fire. 

His newest piece tells of a mourned martyr, masked face stitched on the tattered flags of a conquered land. Lost and remembered only for a short moment of rebellion. None to see the yielding of flesh and mind wrapped in the filth of chains, none to see the renunciation of home and life. Chrollo composes and weaves the story as he travels, his troupe rehearsing with him, ever loyal. 

The tape unwinds, the song plays. Chrollo wishes he could be surprised when Phinks brings back the head of Kortopi, hair gone dull and limp, but he only feels a silent rage. 

They hunt. The black oil sparks. 

☩

He follows the trail to a cathedral, just as the burning sun touches the horizon. The iron door is weighted, squeaking as he enters and passes under the eyes of hundreds of watchful angels. Works of art sculpted in their own right; judgement so loud it presses into his ears, makes them ring. Every footstep echoes through the cylindrical pillars and up to the arched ceiling. Chrollo tips his head up and notes the flickering orange light of candles, hidden behind solitary, weeping angels, as he crosses the nave. 

A man waits for him at the darkened altar, holding a single unlit candle.

☩

The wickedness of the moon reveals itself, casting a ray of soft white onto his carved form; it makes him look blessed. 

_ “Danchou.” _ Hisoka’s voice is deep and delighted, eyes narrowed into gleaming slits.  _ “Danchou, _ you’ve come.”

Chrollo doesn’t falter in his steps, doesn’t pause to survey his surroundings for possible traps. Tonight, it is cold and empty save for the heat of Hisoka’s grin, and it will remain that way. The edges of his smooth voice mix with the others. Mocking, the angels, they’re mocking him, demanding he step into the confessional, kneel and offer his hands palm-up. 

He greets him, to clear the air. “Hisoka.”

“Are you here to kill me?” Delight laced with anticipation; Hisoka extends a long arm, perfectly perpendicular to the floor. If he moved it directly forward, to flick a deadly card, the fight would be on. It’s not exactly what he’s here for, though. It isn’t what they’re here for. 

“I’ve written something.” He has a story to tell. He’s a story to tell. 

“You’re not going to kill me?” Honey fire in his tone. Even the curve of his body towards Chrollo is a question, a suggestion. 

“I will, after.” A promise. 

“Let’s hear it, then.” The candle breaks apart on the ground. Hisoka, stripped of his usual outfit and looking nearly vulnerable in an unbuttoned silk shirt, glides towards him with an elegance born of moonlight. Black pants; the illusion of a missing lower half is destroyed by the reflective metal on his shoes. 

Three steps down, he stands just beside him, facing in the opposite direction. If they wanted, they could interlock their fingers, press their bodies together and sway to timeless songs like lovers reunited. Hisoka leans down, sugar-sweet distance preserved. “But, Chrollo—you won’t. You won’t kill me.”

“We’ll see about that.” 

One by one, the candles extinguish themselves, the cathedral falling into darkness. 

☩

“The symbol is a man. His childhood matters not; whether he was raised on piles of gold or in the poorest of slums has no relation to his status. He is known for the scars on his neck and wrists; they are seen as defining freedom, no matter how contrary the concept.”

Hisoka interrupts him from below, where he’s slipping Chrollo’s heels off. “I thought you meant you wrote music.”

Ignoring him, Chrollo continues. “The symbol is a man; he, for a single moment, spit on the royalty of a heaving country, and so he is made a hero to the common people. There were none to ask his personal reason, nor his feelings on being placed in such a position. It was simply: he must  _ do, _ and so he did. He fought in the front lines, travelled all over his land, spreading hope and touching hearts.”

Running his hands over bare leg, dry skin, Hisoka says, “How noble.”

“How noble,” Chrollo agrees, “how noble he was. Even as he was captured, his bravery was remembered. They spoke of him everywhere, sewed his face and name into their battle flags, named children after him. They saw not his crumbled soul in the dungeons of interrogation, the betrayal—” Tongue on the inside of his knee, veined hands pushing his robe aside, “—betrayal of the people who raised him up—” Teeth to thigh, he pushes away, “—only the symbol—” 

Hisoka is kneeling, palms-up, collarbones exposed and the very picture of sin. The very picture of want. “What’s the purpose of this story?” he purrs, impatience saturating the modulation of his voice, “Please, do tell.”

“There isn’t,” Chrollo tells him, beginning to feel the fire. Flames of the cross. He opens his book and calls the vengeful ghost; it springs into the air and opens its mouth, a cello’s song. “It’s just a story.”

“Everything’s got a purpose.” On his knees, hands still extended, Hisoka’s smile may as well be the end of the world. Chrollo, again, like always, like he always shouldn’t, takes him by the wrists and places his hands on his body. Pulls Hisoka’s slim hips towards his and listens to the music he created, drowning out everything but his own harsh breaths. 

“Or else, why would I go to such lengths to fight? Kill? Find you?”

☩

How cold the cathedral is. The wooden bench his back is flat against is chilled and polished, everything else marble and stone. They are the only sources of heat remaining. 

He has waited long enough, waited through decades and centuries and eons. “Hurt me.”

“No,  _ danchou.” _ The cruel cut of his body against the stained glass windows, red hair glowing. Chrollo drags him down with a clenched fist, pulling strands free, merciless. The angels are watching.

“Do it. Do it right now, Hisoka. Keep calling me that and I’ll make it an order.”

“Chrollo,” but it’s a sigh, a concession, and Hisoka gives him what he wants. Merciful.

☩

“You’re mine, right?”

Why’s he even asking? Chrollo cannot give a response. The shadows settle into their sated forms, bleeding over and toppling into the tiled floor like little glass figurines. 

A nail, filed to a point acute enough to bleed, traces too gently over his cheek. “Mine.”

Lies, lies, lies. 

☩

“I’m sorry about Kortopi.”

Chrollo turns away, draws cloth to cover himself up, only to realize that it’s Hisoka’s silk shirt draped over him. “You’re not.”

“I’m sorry about Shalnark.”

“You’re not.”

Hisoka’s pale face comes close, sensual in the purple of night. The angles of him are all sharp, and they should slice Chrollo right open, but they are deceptively genuine in their softness. “I’m sorry for leaving you.”

“You  _ aren’t,” _ he breathes, but it tastes like a lemon lie. The angels’ hum confirm. 

☩

Darling darling, made to grieve. Made to lose and lie and live. 

  
  
  
  
  


_ I want you to know that I've had no love like your love _

“Nobody”, Hozier

**Author's Note:**

> dddamn yall never saw this one okay?? also there's a fire playlist on spotify called "Chrollo's Theme" it is SO good. like I. Shinji??? genius


End file.
